Mistaken Identity
by Jacinda
Summary: Catherine had mistakenly sent him to jail 10 years ago for a crime that he did not commit. Sara, among others, would have to pay for Catherine's mistakes. (NS friendship, CW) (Rated for language)
1. Sara's POV: Mistaken Identity

Author's Note: This is an idea that I had been playing around with lately. I'm not sure if this is going to turn into something with relationships. Please let me know what you think.

* * *

I was pissed. Lately, everything about work caused me to go home pissed. I hated the whispers that started the second I left the room. I hated the looks of curiosity. I hated how people treated me like I was the loose cannon Catherine wanted me to be. I hated being the scapegoat . . . the weakest part of the team.

My only solace came from working with Greg. He was a calming influence. I enjoyed teaching him the trade. I felt proud every time Greg perfected a new skill. It helped to distract me from how much I had come to hate my job and the shift change.

The sun was already high in the sky. Greg and I had been forced to work with Catherine and Warrick on a case this morning. Catherine had dragged Warrick to a press conference, while she told Greg and me to stay in the lab and finish processing the evidence. Catherine would do anything to make herself look good, even if it was at the expense of another. Her goal seemed to be to make Greg and me feel like the ugly stepchildren. I wasn't sure if Warrick and Nick were willing or unwilling parties to Catherine's conquest for power.

I was tired. My eyelids drooped as I walked out my SUV. I dug through my pockets and satchel looking for my keys. I sighed when I realized that they were probably still in my locker.

"Are you Catherine Willows?" a man asked as he approached me. He walked towards me quickly. I snapped around to face the man that was rapidly approaching me. His footsteps were heavy, but quick. It was the middle of summer, but he wore a sweatshirt and tattered jeans. I immediately noticed the blood on the cuff of his faded jeans. He wore a baseball hat that obscured his face.

"I asked if you are Catherine Willows," the man yelled as he continued to approach me. My heart began to pound as I struggled to come up with a response to him. I must have been too slow because he pushed me up against my SUV. I began to struggle with him. I wanted to scream, but I couldn't. I didn't think that anyone would hear me. I was parked in the corner of the parking lot. The walls in the crime lab were all sound proofed. No one would hear me.

I asked him to stop. I began to beg him to stop as he wrapped his fingers around my neck. I tried to kick, but he had my body pinned tightly against the hot metal of my vehicle. He kept squeezing. I tried to claw him or anything to get his DNA under my nail, but I couldn't remember if I was successful.

"You sent me to jail. Ten years ago, you sent me to jail for a crime I didn't commit," the man growled, "You ruined my life. You made my wife divorce me. My children won't talk to me anymore. I'm going to ruin your life."

I coughed as I tried to draw air into my lungs. My chest throbbed. I wondered why he thought I was Catherine. I was taller . . . a brunette. I thought that ten years would be enough to imprint the image of Catherine in his mind.

I heard a car drive into the parking lot. My peripheral vision was starting to gray. I felt him let me fall to the ground. The blacktop was searing against my skin. I heard the man's footsteps quickly disappear; I heard a door slam. I could barely breathe. I was too scared to pull myself off the ground.

"Sara, Sara," I heard Brass yell as he ran to where I was crumpled on the asphalt. I heard him call for an ambulance. He kept asking me to talk to him, but I couldn't. I could barely gasp for breath. I remember hearing voices and the click of cameras before everything faded to black.


	2. Brass' POV: Gentle

Brass's POV:

I pulled into the parking lot and immediately saw that Sara was being pinned up against her SUV. Her attacker's hands were wrapped around her neck as he yelled something at her. I instinctively called for back-up. I drove over to the far end of the expansive parking lot. The man ran. He ran only after violently throwing what appeared to be Sara's lifeless body on the ground.

I was torn between pulling my gun out of its holster or running to my fallen colleague. The moment I got to Sara's side, she coughed and gasped to draw air into her lungs. I couldn't bring myself to leave her alone, so I could pursue her attacker. I couldn't bring myself to leave her alone if moments were all that she might have left. I called for an ambulance. I called inside the crime lab to get someone out in the parking lot.

"Sara, talk to me," I urged her. Her eyes were open, but they were veiled in an eerie glassiness. The red marks around her neck were intensifying to where they became crimson against Sara's pale skin. Those marks might have been red, but her lips were the faintest pink. They might have even been something closer to lilac.

"Jim, what's going on?" Nick said as he ran over to where I was kneeling on the ground next to Sara. I was silently praying for Sara to cough, gasp for air, or something that would let me know that she still was alive. My fears were becoming more realized as I heard the sirens of the ambulance and squad cars looming in the distance. I wasn't sure if I could keep her alive until then. I was terrified to move her if her neck was indeed broken.

"Pictures, Nicky. Pictures now," I instructed as I backed away. When we nailed this guy, I wanted the jury to see what he did to the young CSI.

"What the hell happened?" Nick asked as he began clicking away.

"Someone was strangling her when I pulled into the parking lot. Why isn't the ambulance here yet?" I said as I returned to where I had been sitting and gently holding Sara's hand.

"She was assaulted in the parking lot?" Nick said with a terrified look on his face.

"Sara," Greg yelled as he ran out of the lab. He looked exhausted. Greg tripped and fell hard to the pavement as he ran over to us. He scrambled to his feet and ran to Sara. Greg looked heartbroken. He was by far the CSI that was closest to Sara. Sara had become his mentor. I saw the way Greg went to Sara with questions at crime scenes. I heard Sara give Greg pep talks before he went to testify in court. He ran to her; Greg asked her to be okay.

I was shocked back into reality the minute the paramedic told me that I needed to give them room to work. I stood between Nick and Greg. We all watched in horror as the paramedics began to work on Sara. IV lines were placed. She was placed in a neck collar and tied down to a backboard. We were all silent. I could feel Greg trembling as we watched Sara get loaded into the ambulance.

"Come on. I'll drive you. Nick, go get your kit," I ordered.

"But this is the day shift's case . . . Catherine doesn't let us pick our cases," Nick said.

"Do you really want anyone off day shift to take Sara's statement?" I barked. Nick shook his head before disappearing into the crime lab. He quickly returned with his kit in hand. He was followed by a weary looking Grissom and disheveled looking Sophia. Nick and Greg piled into my car. Sophia and Grissom began to talk to the officers and make sure that the scene was as secure as it could get. Ecklie ran out of the lab and flagged us down before I was able to leave the parking lot. I always hated that man. That man made his way into my back seat. I had always hoped that Ecklie would be in my backseat . . . in handcuffs. I never thought it would be like this.

We sped off to Desert Palms Hospital.


	3. Nick's POV: Yesterdays

Nick's POV:

The extent of her injuries were bad bruises around her neck and hypoxia. The doctors were able to remedy the hypoxia with oxygen, but they could do nothing about the horrendous bruising. Sara lay perfectly still on the gurney. It reminded me of being in the hospital after Nigel Crane had at me. I had also been terrified to start interacting with the world . . . that would mean that everything that happened would become real.

"Sara, I need to take your statement," I said as I sat next to her gurney. She tried to turn her neck so she could face me, but Sara hissed in pain before she made much progress.

"He didn't want me. He was looking for Catherine," Sara said in a flat, blunted voice. I wasn't sure what was more chilling, Sara's voice or the fact that Sara wasn't the intended target.

"Can you tell me what happened, Sara?" I asked as I began to fidget uncomfortably.

"I couldn't find my car keys. I was about to go back into the lab to see if I left them in my locker. This guy kept asking me if I was Catherine. He scared me . . . there was blood on the bottom of the right cuff of his jeans. I'm so stupid . . . I don't think I ever told him that I wasn't Catherine," Sara said as she narrated her story. Her narration was chilling because she talked like she was describing the events that happened to someone else.

"You're not stupid. It was all a case of mistaken identity," I replied.

"I tried to push him away when he pushed me against the car. He started choking me. He kept talking about how Catherine sent him to jail ten years ago for a crime he didn't commit. He kept telling me that he would kill me. That's when I heard Brass. The guy pushed me to the ground. Then, Brass was there," Sara said in the same flat voice, "I think I might have been able to get some of his DNA under my nails."

"Okay. Do you remember anything else?" I asked as I struggled to write down everything that Sara was saying.

"No. I don't look anything like Catherine. It should have been her," Sara whispered in a very factual manner, "Where's Greg? I could hear his voice when I was on the ground. Is someone making sure that he's okay?"

"Sara, Greg's fine. He's waiting in the hallway to see you. It's okay to start feeling something . . . I'm not going to tell anyone else," I replied.

"What would you say if I said that I wished it was Catherine instead of me?" Sara challenged.

"I'd say that I understand. I'd say that there were times when I wondered why Warrick wasn't thrown out of a second story window instead of me," I replied. There were so many times that I wondered that. In my nightmares, sometimes it was Warrick that took my place. I always woke up in a cold sweat before Warrick hit the ground.

"That's different because you are friends with Warrick. I'm not friends with Catherine . . . it should have been her," Sara replied angrily, "Does that make you think less of me?"

"No, Sara, no," I said as I tried to think of what to say to her.

"You should start collecting evidence before you lose it," Sara replied, "You might be able to get epithelials from my neck or under my fingernails and trace transfer from my clothes."

I obediently did as she asked. I wasn't about to take away the little control that Sara had. She closed her eyes as I took pictures. She grimaced in pain as I took fingernail scrapings. I rarely did this on live people. I was thankful that evidence collection ended with fingernail scrapings – I don't think I could have handled the thought of a nurse having to do a rape kit on Sara.

"Hey, Sar," Greg said as he walked into the room. He was carrying a small stuffed animal, a lion. It was the perfect choice for Sara. She was fierce, intense, and fearless . . . normally.

"Greg," Sara whispered.

"I got you this . . . something to keep you company," Greg stammered. I watched them enviously as I put the evidence into safe storage in my kit. Sara and I used to be friends when things used to be simpler. That was sometime before these shift changes . . . sometime before swing and nights started pretending they were never a team. It seemed like it might have been another lifetime.

"Greg, you didn't have to," Sara said as she examined the stuffed animal.

"You always have my back . . . I'll always have yours," Greg said. Part of me wanted to pipe up and tell Greg that that was my line. I was shocked at how nights managed to come together as they did. I had pictured Sophia and Sara killing each other, but they had all become friends. Sara even had a healthy relationship with Grissom for the first time in years.

It was bittersweet to watch. It made me wonder why we couldn't hang on to all those yesterdays.


	4. Catherine's POV: Reality

Catherine's POV:

"You've got to be kidding me. You can't tell me that Sara said this guy was looking for me," I said to Gil. Gil's downcast gaze told me that he wasn't lying. I had initially hoped this was some kind of joke or some kind of revenge on the part of the night shift.

"Catherine, Brass is trying to arrange some kind of police protection for you," Gil replied. I walked the crime scene with Grissom again. Fifteen minutes ago, Warrick and I drove into a parking lot full of squad cars. Sophia and Grissom were busy taking pictures and such. A few assorted members of the dayshift were fingerprinting Sara's SUV. I knew it must have been bad, but I hadn't expected it to be this bad.

"Nick just called to tell me what happened to Sara. She was attacked by someone that claims you put him in jail for ten years for a crime he didn't commit. Catherine, you need to listen to me," Gil said visibly worried despite his dark sunglasses.

"That's crazy. Sara and I look nothing alike," I retorted suddenly becoming angry at Gil.

"This guy is dangerous; he's willing to assault Sara in the middle of the parking lot at ten in the morning. Catherine, you need police protection until we have a suspect in custody," Gil replied more firmly this time.

"I have smudges and a partial. I'm going to go run my partial in AFIS," Sophia said as she brushed up against Gil. I wanted to yell at her to butt the hell out of this conversation. She replaced me. Sophia was the one that Gil had dinner with. Sophia was the one that was privy to those deep conversations with Gil. I missed those conversations; I missed the subtle security of the relationship that I once had with him. If I couldn't have it, Sophia sure as hell shouldn't have it.

"Good. I'll be in there soon. We have enough cooks in the kitchen," Gil commented.

"So what now . . . what about Lindsey?" I asked irritated as Sophia walked away.

"Go inside and try to calm down before your ride gets here," Gil replied visibly frustrated with my raised voice and all too apparent disdain for the entire situation. I still wasn't convinced that this all was real.

I reluctantly went into the crime lab where Warrick was camped out in the break room. He swirled the coffee in his coffee cup. He stared blankly into the black liquid.

"It's bad, Catherine. Nick said that Sara isn't doing too well. Brass said that she's lucky to be alive," Warrick said in a shockingly calm voice. It was calmer than his normal tone. It scared me. I had to look away from him.

"I should start looking through my old cases and parolees," I said with a slight waver to my voice.

"Cath, you should listen to Grissom. We don't know who this guy is yet. What if he's waiting for you at home?" Warrick asked, "What if he realizes that he got the wrong person? This is already all over the news."

"This is insane. This is absolutely insane. I'm not the judge and jury for these people . . . that's the job of their peers. That's all public information. This madman could go after anyone," I said as I slouched into a chair.

"Brass said that he's working on making sure everyone involved with the trial is safe. I know what you are thinking," Warrick said gently.

"I'm glad one of us knows what I'm thinking," I replied with a frustrated huff.

"Cath, it's not your fault. You're right that we aren't the ones that convict people. We just tell the story that the evidence holds," Warrick replied.

"Very Grissom of you, Rick," I said.

"Well, he's right, isn't he?"

"Don't make me say it," I challenged Warrick with a smile. I look up into his hazel eyes. I loved his eyes. They were so easy to get lost in; they were so easy to take comfort in.

"Hey," Nick said as he collapsed into a chair next to Warrick. The little wrinkles around his eyes were exaggerated, as were the dark circles under his eyes.

"How's she doing?" Warrick asked even though he got off the phone with Nick only minutes ago. I still had a hard time believing that I was the original target.

"She's pissed. She wants to know why and who," Nick replied as he rested his head in his hands. It was clear that Sara wanted to know why I wasn't the one in the hospital bed. I, too, began to wonder why.

"She's not there alone is she?" Warrick asked.

"Greg's with her. He brought her a stuff animal to keep her company. Ecklie is taking a second statement and doing some _counseling_," Nick replied his words dripping with jealousy and hurt.

"They've gotten really chummy lately," I accidentally said a little too harshly. Nick looked at me wondering exactly who I was talking about. Sara and Greg had become good friends, but they always had gotten along well. Ecklie had all but followed Sara around since she got back from her suspension. His behavior was weird, but Ecklie had always been a little weird.

"I hope you are talking about Greg. I don't think anyone looks to be 'chummy' with Ecklie," Warrick replied as he gently squeezed my thigh. I could feel myself blush. I'm sure that Nick didn't notice Warrick's calming gesture. In that moment of silence, everything seemed real.

I was afraid . . . I suddenly became very afraid.


	5. Grissom's POV: Payback

Grissom's POV:

The scene was unremarkable. There wasn't any blood on the concrete. There weren't any good fingerprints. There weren't any video cameras to catch the assault. The entire case rested on whether or not Sara was able to scratch her perpetrator. I was relatively sure that Sara's overly analytical mind made collecting evidence a priority.

Sophia slept quietly as the computer began to run the substantially smudged partial fingerprint, which could very well be Sara's fingerprint. I left her to sleep. I went in search of Mia, who agreed to stay late to help out. Mia shook her head as I approached.

"Give me twenty minutes, Griss," Mia said as she loaded the sample into the PCR.

"Sorry," I replied as I stood awkwardly in the doorway.

"I have DNA . . . just give the machine time," Mia replied with a soft smile. I think I tried to smile back.

"Gil, it's gone from bad to worse. Time isn't a luxury anymore," Brass said with a huff.

"Jim," I replied. My reply came out sounding much more like a question rather than the greeting I had intended.

"Judge Winston was gunned down in his home sometime between seven this morning and noon. His wife found him," Jim replied.

"You think it's related to Sara's assault?" I asked as I followed him down the hall to where Catherine, Nick, and Warrick were still congregated.

"Payback was written on the wall in blood," Brass said as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Another one?" Catherine asked.

"Judge Winston. It had to be the oldest damn judge in the county. He's prosecuted hundreds of different cases . . . I'm having Vega pull all the files that Catherine and Winston worked on. He's going to cross-reference the list with current parolees," Brass explained. Catherine sat still with her mouth slightly agape.

"I'm headed out to the scene. Nicky, you up for some work?" I asked.

"Sure, yeah," Nick replied as he stood up from the chair he was sitting in.

"I can help out too," Warrick replied.

"No, you stay with Catherine. She doesn't get let out of your sight," I replied. Nick followed me down the hallway to the fingerprint lab where Sophia was softly snoring in front of the computer.

"It's Sara's print," I whispered to Nick, who nodded, "Sophia, go sleep in my office." I said as I gently woke her. She looked up at me confused, but then focused her gaze to the computer screen. Sophia cursed under her breath when she saw her smudged partial was Sara's print.

"Is everything okay?" Sophia asked as I helped her out of the chair. She wobbled a little bit as she tried to wake fully from her cat nap.

"No, Brass thinks that the same guy gunned down Judge Winston," I said softly.

"I'll be ready to go in five minutes. Just let me freshen up," Sophia said. She looked much more awake now. She straightened up and quickly walked out of the room before I could get another word in edgewise.

"You're her boss?" Nick asked with a raised eyebrow.

"She has this way of disappearing before you can tell her no," I replied. Nick chuckled under his breath. In many ways, Sophia was so much like Sara. I had accidentally called Sophia 'Sara' once or twice.

The drive to the Judge's house was slow and tense. We exchanged very few words. We listened silently to the police radio in my Denali. We listened to the detectives describe the scene.

We climbed out of the SUV at the foot of a grand light pink brick driveway that lead to what looked like a small castle. I almost gasped at the opulence of the Tudor style home. The neighbors stood on their porches watching the scene unfold. Crime wasn't supposed to happen in these neighborhoods. In my career, I had never been called out to this particular street.

"Nicky, you take the perimeter. Sophia, go talk to the detectives to see what the wife touched on her way in. I'll find David and the DB," I replied. We parted ways amidst the swarm of officers, detectives, and media. I found my way into a luxurious marble and granite bathroom where the blood was crimson against the white marble. The contrast was shocking. I had never seen blood that looked that red or marble that was perfectly snow white. The indoors was just as opulent as the outdoors.

"He was shot thirteen times. Whoever did this used a 9 mm handgun and just unloaded the magazine into a man that could have never fought back," David said as I entered the entrance to the steam shower.

"What do you mean, David?" I asked as I set my kit down on the floor.

"On the counter, he's talking Parkinson's drugs. A few that I remember from med school, and one that I know is experimental. It's being used to help lessen moderate debility," David replied, "I'm putting time of death at 9 to 9:30 this morning. All the shots were in his back . . . . he never knew what was coming."

I took pictures of the body and the crimson pool of blood. The mirror was adorned with the word 'payback' written in what I assumed to be the victim's blood. I let David leave with the body. I couldn't look at it anymore. Knowing that the Judge couldn't fight back, it sickened me.

"The wife touched the front door and the counter around where the groceries were placed. On the second floor, she touched the stair railing. The bathroom door was already open and the steam shower was turned off. I'm going to print the doorknob," Sophia replied, "Nick found a basement window that was kicked in."

"Point of entry. Hopefully we can recover a shoe print or something," I replied.

We worked silently for over four hours before we were satisfied that we got what we wanted. Nick covered the perimeter and the basement of the expansive house. Sophia and I covered the first and second floors. Nick found a muddy shoe print in the basement. Sophia was hopeful that the print she recovered on the bathroom doorknob was that of our murderous parolee.

We were greeted by two armed officers at the door of the crime lab. We had to present a form of identification before we were allowed to enter. We unloaded our evidence on the day shift, which was working into the swing shift. I let Sophia sleep on the couch in my office. I fell asleep in my desk chair. Nick napped on the couch in the break room. Warrick and Catherine were busy helping the lab techs sort through our evidence.

I fell into restless dreams of Sara and an old man that never had a chance.


	6. Greg's POV: Lucky

Author's Notes: I just wanted to give you all a warning I'm trying something new . . . I'm not going to write Sophia or Grissom as the bad guy (imagine that). I know a lot of people hate Sophia, but it's kind of nice to have a new character to play with. I know most of my stories make Grissom out to be a cold, closed off jerk, but I'm going to try to write him like Grissom was portrayed in season 1 (I miss the sweet, caring, and slightly inept Grissom). Just be warned. Also be warned that I tend to lean towards NS and CW. I don't know if it will be friendships or something more. Hope you enjoy the update :) - Jac

Greg's POV:

The nurse handed me a few slips for different prescriptions. Sara sat silently in the wheelchair. They had put bandages on her neck. The doctor put a foam collar around her neck to restrain her movement until someone of the swelling could go down. The doctor must have known Sara wasn't listening to his warnings about taking it easy for a few days.

"I don't want to go home. He could be waiting for me . . . to finish me off," Sara said softly.

"That's okay because we have to take a cab back to the lab, so I can get my car and house keys," I replied as I pushed her wheelchair down the hallways. Sara cursed the moment the nurse told her she couldn't leave unless it was in a wheelchair. I was surprised that Sara was going quietly.

"Have you heard from anyone lately?" Sara replied.

"Not since Ecklie left," I replied. Ecklie had spent over an hour grilling Sara on exactly what happened, what was said, down to what the suspect smelled like. He had tried to be gentle, but Ecklie only succeeded in tiring Sara out. She had begun to emotionally shut down. "Are you going to be okay if we go back there?"

"Greg, you are worrying too much. I want to find out if Mia was able to get DNA out of my fingernail scrapings," Sara replied as I helped her into the waiting taxi. She gave me a smile that was forced and tense.

"If she didn't, I'll take a look at the sample," I replied as Sara rested her head against the window. I told the taxi driver where to drop us off. Sara and I were silent for the rest of the ride back to the lab. I could see her visibly tense up as we approached the crime lab. She looked at me worried when she saw two armed guards waiting for us at the door.

The officers asked Sara how she was doing as they opened the doors for her. Sara tried to smile at them, but all she could say was that she was lucky. The word lucky came out sounding bitter. I could only imagine that she was thinking that somehow Catherine managed to get much luckier than herself.

"Sara, how are you doing?" Warrick asked as I helped her navigate the hallway. Sara was much more tired than she would ever admit. She was unsteady in her gait. A few minutes ago, she had complained that she was starving and had 'a bad' headache. Warrick awkwardly hugged her. She hugged him the way she might hug an aunt or uncle she hadn't seen in years.

"I'm lucky," Sara replied tersely.

"I know," Warrick replied softly, "You should go home."

"I want to check in with Mia. I need to talk to Brass and Grissom about some time off," Sara replied.

"Griss is in trace with Nick and Sophia. Catherine is in the conference room with Brass," Warrick replied. I was thankful that he gave us the warning. I didn't want Sara to go off on Catherine for something that wasn't her fault. I knew Sara was mad at Catherine. Sara was mad at fate. If I was in her place, I probably would be too. I followed Sara to the trace lab. Grissom looked up shocked. Sophia, oddly enough, was the first person to greet Sara.

"Oh, Sara. I'm so sorry," Sophia said as she hugged Sara a little too tightly causing her to gasp, but Sara smiled at Sophia. Sophia proceeded to pull some of her hair out of the foam collar after commenting that 'that stupid device' was completely unnecessary. I could see the tears begin to trail down Sara's face. I think Sophia had finally won Sara's trust.

"Honey, why are you here?" Grissom asked as he held Sara for moments longer than he probably should have. It received a raised eyebrow from Sophia, who was obviously not done fussing over Sara. I stood back watching what looked like two parents trying to comfort their injured child. I clenched my jaw a little tighter to prevent myself from crying.

"I need my house keys. Greg needs his car, so he can get me home or somewhere else that might be safe," Sara rambled as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Grissom nodded and smiled.

"Brass is going to make sure that you are protected. I'm going to send a CSI with you too. You're going to be okay. I promise," Grissom replied as he helped Sara into a chair despite her obvious desire to get the hell out of dodge.

"This is nice and all . . . the smothering, but I want to go talk to Mia," Sara replied. It made Grissom turn red and Sophia chuckle.

"It's your DNA. I guess I scrapped you a little too hard," Nick said as he kneeled in front of Sara. She tried to lower her head to avoid his gaze, but began to curse again when she realized the foam wouldn't allow that.

"Epithelials from my neck?" Sara asked as her eyes glazed over . . . completely devoid of emotion.

"Mia is taking a nap right now. She's still got samples to run from your neck and from the Judge," Nick replied.

"What Judge?" I asked.

"Judge Winston was murdered this morning. We think it's the same guy that assaulted Sara," Grissom replied. Sara looked up with a terrified look on her face.

"I got some sleep while I was waiting for Sara. I'll go work the DNA lab," I replied. Grissom nodded. Sophia squeezed my arm and smiled. She said that she would order us both some lunch. She could probably hear my stomach growling from across the room. I began to thank God for level headed Sophia. She brought some balance to our team. She didn't come off as outwardly caring, but once she began to open up to us, Sophia took it upon herself to care for us. She would talk to me about cases. She would occasionally ask my opinion. Sophia always took the rape cases, so Sara wouldn't be confronted with their faces on an autopsy table.

"Thank you, Greg," Sara whispered.

I didn't know what else I could do to help her.


	7. Sara's POV: Kindness

Sara's POV:

"This doesn't have to be as awkward as you are making it," Nick replied as he drove us to the secret destination where the armed guards were waiting.

"I'm just tired. I can't pronounce the name of any of these drugs they want me to take for my neck thing," I grumbled. I was utterly exhausted having been awake for well over twenty four hours. I had entertained myself in the lab for two hours before the sheriff finally made arrangements for Catherine and me. Each of us were sent to our 'safe houses' with another CSI. That was done to make Grissom feel a little more comfortable by knowing that someone capable was there. Catherine had been sent away with Warrick. I had been sent with Nick, as Greg was still busy in the DNA lab. Nick did make me feel safer no matter how much I tried to deny it.

"You're not supposed to be able to pronounce any of those drug names. That's what keeps the doctors in business," Nick replied. I don't think I laughed at his joke.

"There's an antibiotic, a painkiller, a sedative . . . I don't think I need a sedative," I replied in the grumpiest voice to ever pass my lips.

"I think the sedative is for me," Nick replied as he placed a hand on my knee.

"I'm not taking it," I replied spitefully. Nick laughed and squeezed my knee. I tried to laugh, but my chest was sore from my sudden impact with the ground earlier in the day. I gasped and coughed a few times before I could regain my composure.

"Take it easy," Nick said as he gently rubbed my knee, "Why don't you get some sleep? We still have a half hour drive in front of us."

"Where the hell are you taking me? We left Vegas over twenty minutes ago," I asked. The mention of sleep made my eyes begin to droop.

"Brass said he has a cabin north of the lakes. You and me are roughing it for a few days," Nick commented.

"The Sidles have never been known for roughing it. There is some comfort in knowing that I'm always within ten minutes of a hospital, grocery store, and massage parlor," I rambled to fill the uncomfortable silence.

"I always pictured you as earthier than that. Sitting on a cliff meditating to the sound of some kind of wildlife in the distance," Nick commented.

"Try sitting in a yoga studio communing with nature via a CD entitled 'The Sounds of Nature.' I like nature in small doses. My parents weren't the camping type. They weren't really the parenting type. My father was more of the 'beat the hell out of you' kind of guy," I rambled. I could feel Nick's sweaty palm through my pant leg. "The ket-oro-lac must be making me talk. You can just tell me to shut up, and I'll shut up."

"Sara, it's been five years . . . sometimes, I don't feel like anyone knows you. You hide away in a professional façade or drink away everything in your life," Nick replied after drawing in a deep breath.

"I know. Did you ever have a secret that was so bad and ugly that you couldn't tell anyone ever under any circumstances?" I asked.

"Yeah. Everyone has one secret like that. No one is perfect," Nick replied.

"My whole childhood was a big, ugly secret. I went to college across the country just because I needed to reinvent myself. I created this perfect childhood with perfect parents. I had people believing I grew up in a household that was a Norman Rockwell come to life," I replied as I willed my brain to stop talking.

"Why do you think I moved to Vegas?" Nick asked, "I ran away from everything . . . a great girlfriend, a close family, a good job because I couldn't handle looking at my older brother's new fiancée."

"Let's not talk for awhile. My head hurts, and I'm still hungry," I complained.

"Sar, you don't need to always be noble in your suffering," Nick gently prodded.

"Old habits are hard to break," I said with a yawn.

I drifted into sleep as we passed through roads that might lead to no where or everywhere. I could hear the hum of the radio somewhere in the back of my exhausted mind. I had been terrified to fall asleep. I was terrified of the dreams that I was anticipating. They wouldn't really be dreams; they would be nightmares that would threaten my already fragile mental state.

"Sar, come on. We're here," Nick said as he unbuckled my seatbelt. I said something unintelligible to him. He smile and gently eased me into a position where he could pick me up and carry me into the cabin. I rested my head against his shoulder as he cradled my body close to his chest. I hadn't felt so secure in a long time.

He carried me into a bedroom that smelled of dust. The air was thick and dank from months of closed windows. Nick covered me with a blanket, but stop when he saw that I was becoming increasingly wakeful.

"Two officers. One by the back door and another by the front door. One of them said that Brass would stop by with some supplies to get us all through the next few days," Nick said as he tucked the blanket around me. My grandmother did that when I was very young. She would tuck me in so tightly that I could barely move.

"Oh, I'm really hungry. Can you help me change my bandages? The doctor wants me to put on an antibiotic salve twice a day. I don't know if I can do it myself," I said. Nick nodded and gently reminded me that he was the one that waited with me in the pharmacy.

"Brass is going to send Sophia and an officer to your apartment to pick up some clothes. Grissom said that you should make a list of the toiletries you need. I'll send an officer to pick those up courtesy of the crime lab," Nick said as he readjusted the pillows behind my back.

"Better Sophia than Greg," I replied. Nick smiled.

"I think Greggo is all grown up. You've somehow managed to turn him into quite the man," Nick replied as he batted my hands away from the foam collar.

"He's a good CSI. I'm really proud of him," I replied with a yawn.

"He takes good care of you," Nick said.

"Greg thinks that he can fix everything that is wrong with me. He reminds me of you," I whispered as my eyelids became heavy again.

"Sar, get some sleep. I'll make supper whenever the groceries get here," Nick said as he began to lift himself off the bed.

"Can you stay for a few minutes? I'm afraid of the nightmares . . . I'm not even asleep, but I'm already afraid of them," I asked with a nervous laugh. I knew he understood. I remembered watching him after Nigel threw him out the window and held a gun to his head. Nick tried to do anything to keep himself awake. When he did sleep, it was fitful. At one point Warrick and I thought his tossing and turning looked more akin to a seizure. We stayed awake to watch him that night. The memory gave me chills. So many years ago, I prayed that I never would be in Nick's position, but there I was.

"Close your eyes. I'll be right here," Nick said as he laid down on the bed next to me.

_Thank you so much for his kindness, I prayed._


	8. Grissom's POV: Suburbia

A/N: I'm going to try something new - I'm going to do a little backstory on Ecklie. I'm also not going to make him into a huge ss. I'm in this mood where I am really missing the first season. I miss how everyone used to get along. Hope you like the update - Jac

Grissom's POV:

"Jim, I'm starting to wonder if I should even take your phone calls anymore," I said as I answered my ringing telephone.

"I'm going to take you off my speed dial when this whole mess is over with," Brass grumbled, "Sara and Nick got to the cabin okay. Catherine and Warrick made it to your desert hideaway. But that's not what I called about."

"Will I have to kill the messenger?" I asked as I began to run the shoeprint found at the last crime scene through the database.

"Ronald Morgan was found dead in his car. His car was sitting in his driveway. His wife saw him pull in to the driveway around 5 pm. She became suspicious when he was not in the house within thirty minutes. I guess he was a friendly guy . . . liked to talk to the neighbors about the Red Sox," Brass recited, "Bullet threw and threw the hands. Lodged itself in his head. Looks like a 9 mm."

"Jesus," I cursed under my breath, "You think it's him again."

"His wife said he's always done his civic duties. He's been on seven juries, Gil. So much for being a good citizen," Brass said, "We're out in Henderson on Mason Drive. Just follow the shine of the news media."

"I'll be out there as soon as I can," I said with a sigh.

"Another one?" Ecklie said as he stood in the doorway to the lab.

"The guy served as a juror on seven cases," I replied.

"You're team is tapped out. I'll come help you at the scene," Ecklie replied. I sat staring at him with my eyebrow raised. It was out of character for him to be so civil to me. It was out of character for him to spend more time in the lab than need be.

"Sure. I'll get Greg, and we'll head out in five minutes," I replied. The tone of my voice indicated that I was skeptical of his motives.

"Sara's fragile. I didn't really know that until I began reading her file. She was probably too young to remember, but I was an intern that worked on her mother's case. I never put two and two together," Ecklie replied.

"She is fragile," I said because I didn't know what else to say to him.

"The case was gory and bad, Gil. I never realized how it has stayed with her for all these years," Ecklie replied with a downcast gaze, "The scene was so bad that I remember going home that morning and vomiting for hours."

"Thank you for your compassion, Conrad. I'll meet you outside in five minutes," I replied as I brushed passed Ecklie to find Greg.

"I'm sending the epithelials to the FBI. They have better equipment . . . I just can't get a good enough profile. I think Sara's sunscreen might have denatured the DNA," Greg rambled.

"That's okay. Is Mia ready to take over?" I asked.

"Yeah, she's eating something in the break room," Greg replied.

"I need you to come to a scene with me . . . and Ecklie," I said. Greg looked up shocked at the prospect.

"He did it again?" Greg asked as he shook his head.

"In Henderson. He's brazen. Right in the driveway at 5 in the evening," I said as I tried to stifle a yawn.

"Let me tell Mia. I'll get my stuff and meet you in the parking lot," Greg replied.

We loaded into my Denali. The déjà vu that I was feeling was chilling. I had a feeling that it might continue until we had some kind of forensic evidence to point us in the direction of a suspect. I was startled at how sloppy the scenes were, but there was a complete lack of useful forensic evidence. I had placed all my faith in Sophia's ability to finish working on my shoeprint and begin working on the fingerprint we found this morning.

The house was straight from a perfect picture postcard. Everything was perfect right down to the white picket fence that separated the yellow ranch from the neighboring houses. The landscaping was immaculately placed with frog statues interspersed between the hardy foliage. The only flaw was the bright red blood that had seeped out of the door seal and on to the concrete. It was a far cry different from the opulence that overwhelmed me this morning.

"Ronald Morgan a sixty year old programming executive at the Christian radio station. One of the last true pieces of Americana left in this city. Wife found him at five thirty – thirty minutes after his car pulled into the driveway. She thought he was talking to the neighbors or tinkering in the garage. He never made it that far," Brass said as he rubbed his furrowed forehead.

"This house is right out of the 1950s," Greg commented. He must have also been wondering why suburban perfection had to go so terribly wrong.

"The wife is devastated. I'm going to take her in to the station for her comment. I don't want her to have to see you guys and the coroner poking around her husband's body," Brass said as he marched off to the front porch. I could see a radiant-looking older woman peeking out the mirror occasionally. I could smell what she had been cooking for supper the minute that Brass opened the front door. We watched Brass escort the woman out of the house and into his car. He wrapped an arm around her; if he hadn't, she would have likely fallen to the ground. Her facial features were blunted by the heavy weigh of shock and disbelief. Unfortunately for her, this would all become real. Suburban life would never be the same again.

"I'll take the perimeter of the property," Ecklie said as he directed his attention on the fence line.

"Greg, I want you to talk to the neighbors. Find out what they saw and heard. Find out anything you can," I said. Greg nodded and straightened his wrinkled clothing. He approached a crowd of people congregated across the street. I could hear crying among the soft roar of the stunned crowd.

"David," I said as I approached him.

"He tried to protect himself . . . put his hands up to shield his face. The damage is visibly consistent with that of this morning's scene. He did it again," David said.

"Do we have pictures of the body yet?" I asked as I began to load the cartridge into my digital camera.

"No. You, Greg, and Ecklie are the only ones at the scene. Dr. Robbins called to let me know that someone from day shift was at the morgue reviewing the Winston autopsy. She's going to wait there until we get Mr. Morgan to the morgue," David explained. It looked as if he might have been awake just as long as I had.

"Okay, give me a few minutes," I said as I began snapping away.

"Griss, I've got a description of a suspicious car seen driving around the neighborhood around 4 pm. I'm going to take a little walk to see if maybe the car was dumped nearby," Greg said. I told him to be extremely careful.

"Potato," I whispered to myself as I began to photograph the concrete and the side of the car. The guy obviously knows his stuff. I guessed that 10 years in prison was more like a tutorial in payback. He had a plan; that made him so much more dangerous.

"Their lawn is like a turf. No footprints . . . nothing that looks out of place," Ecklie said startling me, "I'm going to root around the neighbor's yards. See if I can look in their trashcans for cigarette butts and stuff."

"Look for the remnants of a potato. He used a potato silencer," I said as I straightened up.

"What the hell do we do next?" Ecklie said. Though it was more of a question than a statement, there was no easy answer. Until the evidence spoke and Vega was able to go through years of case files, we waited until he committed another crime.

"Hey," Detective O'Reilly said as he approached the scene, "Jim asked me to come out here to give you so good news."

"It better be good," Ecklie said. His eyes were still fixed on the suburban disaster.

"We have it narrowed to one case, two suspects," O'Reilly replied.

"Two suspects?" I asked.

"Two brothers tried together for rape and aggravated assault of a stripper ten years ago to the day," he said, "From what Vega told me, both sound guilty as hell. The jury didn't even need the evidence to convict them. Vega is searching for both brothers Grimm."

"Nice Grissom-ism," Ecklie commented.

"I spent the entire drive trying to come up with something," the detective said proudly. I didn't know whether to laugh or hit him. It felt wrong to laugh in the presence of something so horrible.

"Okay, I'll be done with the scene in less than two hours. Conrad, can you call the lab to see if auto can get out here ASAP?" I asked. I wanted that car. I wanted to fingerprint the hell out of the driver's side door.

"Aren't you going to ask what the hitch is? These cases are never that open and shut . . . black and white . . . as we want them to be," O'Reilly asked.

"I've had enough mystery and suspense for the day," I replied.

"Twins. Identical twins," O'Reilly replied.

"The evidence would have implicated both in a heartbeat. I'd pissed if I was the innocent one," Ecklie replied with wide eyes.

"Gotta love this job," O'Reilly said as he shook his head. I actually really, really hated this job today. I hated that I had to send my CSIs to safehouses, so that they couldn't be harmed. I hated that every member of the lab was working on zero energy. I had resorted to pure adrenaline hours ago. I still clung to the wish that maybe I was just dreaming. I was ready to wake up.

"Let's get the evidence before there is no more evidence to get," I said as I began to collect pieces of the potato.

"What can I do to help?" O'Reilly asked.

"Go with Conrad. He's going to talk to the neighbors about looking in trashcans. I'm looking for a potato with a huge hole in it," I said as I motioned toward the off-white bits on the ground.

"Son-of-a-bitch is smart. I hate 'em when they are smart," O'Reilly said as he walked off with Ecklie.

Two hours and a scant amount of evidence later, we were back in my Denali. We followed the tow truck carrying the victim's car. Greg asked me how I was going to fingerprint the potato that he found in a yard three blocks away. I barely heard him. Ecklie said that we could probably put it in the chamber. I said that Jackie would know. That woman knew everything about fingerprinting. Greg nodded and thanked Ecklie. The mood in the air was tense. Tense because of my relationship with Ecklie; tense because I still wasn't sure if the evidence was enough to substantiate a very circumstantial case.

When we got back to the lab, I handed over the victim's vehicle to the day shift. They eagerly suited up and went at fingerprinting every inch of the driver's side. I handed the tuber over to Jackie, who was called in lend her expertise in fingerprinting. Greg and Mia went at trying to determine the paternity of the potato bits found at the scene. Ecklie said he was going to go to the PD to find out the status of our manhunt and the status of the rest of the people involved with the trial. I went to see Doc Robbins.

I was a man of little faith, but I prayed that Mr. Morgan would be the last man to die at the hands of our murderer . . . I prayed that our evidence was stronger than it appeared . . . I prayed that this would be over in just a few hours.

I had this sinking feeling that my prayers might not be answered.


	9. Warrick's POV: Safe

Warrick's POV:

"What the hell does Grissom do when he's here?" Catherine said as she examined the small cottage nestled in the middle of no where.

"He reads. Come look at the living room," I said as I ran my finger along the bookshelf. My finger swept away a thick coat of gray dust. I was afraid to touch the books. The leather bindings looked worn. They looked as though years of reading might have softened the once sturdy leather. Two massive bookshelves housed well over one hundred old books.

"Oh, wow. My mom had an old copy of Peter Rabbit. The bindings were worn exactly like that. I loved that book," Catherine said as she collapsed onto a dusty couch. I stood across the room trying to pretend that we were together under different circumstances. I tried to pretend this was something more than it actually was. I tried to pretend that she wasn't my supervisor. I tried to pretend that for one moment, Catherine might stop acting like my supervisor.

"Are you okay?" I asked. I knew she wouldn't give me a straight answer. Catherine was strong; everything about her life had forced her to become tough. She was just about as tough as they come. In many ways, Catherine was so much tougher than Sara ever could be.

"I was the lucky one. He could have killed Sara if Jim hadn't pulled into the parking lot," Catherine simply stated.

"I know. She didn't look good when she got back to the lab," I commented. I had worked hard to keep Catherine away from Sara. I was positive that Sara would be in a fighting mood. She hated to be the victim. I always imagined that it was because Sara had been the victim one too many times in her life. I could see the anger in Sara's eyes; if I was in her position, my anger would probably be the same. I would probably say things that I didn't mean. I wondered if Sara was alright. I wondered if Nick would be able to handle Sara.

"I don't know why I never liked her. I know everyone wanted to believe that I was jealous of her and Grissom. It wasn't that . . . she's a good worker . . . a good CSI. I just never let myself like her," Catherine said. I was surprised that Catherine was so brutally honest with me. I wasn't surprised to hear Catherine admit that she didn't like Sara. There had always been a silent tension between them. After Eddie was murdered, the silent tension evolved into something that screamed louder than I ever imagined it would.

"Cath, I wanted to know if you were okay," I clarified as I sat next to her on the couch. She rested her head against my shoulder, which cleverly hid her face from my view.

"Rick, she could have died because of me," Catherine replied in the quietest voice.

"But she didn't," I said as I tried to shift so I could see her face.

"That doesn't really change anything, does it?" Catherine asked as she hung her head.

"No. You do know that this isn't your fault. We all get threatening mail. This guy is just crazy enough to act on it," I said as I fought to get her to look at me. The best I could do way run my hands through her hair. It was so soft and so fine. I wanted so badly to pull her into my arms, but Catherine always had to do these things on her own terms. In that sense, she was a Braun. Sam Braun did everything on his own terms.

"What if I was wrong?" Catherine asked. She lifted her tear stained face.

"The technology wasn't as good ten years ago. We do the best we can with what we have to work with," I said as I used my thumb to wipe away a tear that was slithering down her creamy white skin.

"Are you sure the officer said that Lindsey was almost here?" Catherine asked. I knew that she hadn't come to any kind of resolution. It would take time for her to forgive herself for what she hadn't done wrong.

"She'll be here in fifteen . . . twenty minutes," I said as I looked at my watch.

"You know . . . Lindsey loves you. You and Nick spoiled her so much. You guys gave her what Eddie couldn't," Catherine rambled. I could feel my heart break for her. There were so many things that had gone wrong in her life . . . so few things went right. Work might have been the only thing that she had control over. She sure didn't have control over Lindsey. Lindsey had become quite the young woman. She was becoming what Catherine once was despite all Catherine's efforts to give her the world.

"She's always been easy to love," I replied. Catherine nodded and bit her lip in an effort to prevent the tears from escaping again. "So much like her mother."

"Don't lie to me to make me feel better," Catherine said quietly.

"I wasn't lying. That day in the culvert . . . I wanted to kiss you," I said softly. I drew her closer to me. I could feel her ragged breaths on my face.

"You should have. I would have kissed you back," Catherine said. Her blue eyes momentarily didn't look as cold as they normally do. "It's too late for that now."

"Catherine, it's only too late if you make it too late," I said. Something about Catherine drove me crazy. I came from a family that didn't believe in biracial relationships. My aunt stopped talking to one of my cousins after she saw Leticia kissing a white man outside a diner. It wasn't that my family was closed-minded. They were just very proud of our African American culture. My grandmother told me about how our family rose from having nothing and working the fields in Mississippi to having a home and two cars. In my grandmother's eyes, that feat was nothing short of achieving greatness. I wondered what she would think of Catherine. Catherine rose from having nothing but her body to having a home, a successful career, and a greatness that I couldn't even begin to describe.

"I'm your supervisor," Catherine replied. The look on her face told me that this was just lip service. The look in her eyes said that she wanted it not to be too late.

"Only for ten hours day," I said as I ran my hands through her hair again. I've always loved her 'to hell with the rules' look. I was surprised to see that mischievous smile spread across her face.

Her lips trembled slightly against mine, but gave way to a forceful passion. I didn't want to let her go. I wanted to stay frozen like this until it was safe to return to Vegas.

"Mom," Lindsey said as the front door opened. Catherine all but leaped away from me. Lindsey ran to her. She began asking Catherine a million questions about what happened to Sara. She asked if Catherine was going to be safe. I told Lindsey that I, along with the three armed guards, would give my life to protect them. It made Lindsey happy. She smiled and made me promise to keep her and her mother safe.

I spent the night laying on the floor with my loaded gun tucked under the dresser. It was close enough for me to reach it, but not so close that it could be seen by and intruder. I woke up to Lindsey's soft sobbing at three in the morning. She laid on the floor next to me and confessed that she was scared that 'the psycho' might try to hurt us. I reminded Lindsey that I would do anything to protect her and Catherine. Lindsey asked to sleep on the floor next to me; she said that it made her feel safer. It made her feel safe the same way that having me sleep on the couch in the days after Eddie was murdered made her feel safe. I wished Catherine knew how much I loved her and her daughter.


	10. Grissom's POV: Equilibrium

A/N: I got the idea for this chapter after watching Lady Heather's Box last night. That has to be one of my favorite episodes because it does a good job in portraying Grissom as vulnerable and sexy. I kind of wanted to make Grissom vulnerable in this story. I guess I was trying to make him more human. Let me know what you think (I promise I'll have more about the forensics and more snickers in the next chapters). -Jac

* * *

Grissom's POV:

I've been awake for forty-eight hours. Ecklie asked me nicely to go home for a nap; four hours later, he kicked me out of the lab 'for my own good.' I didn't know where to go. I didn't know if I was any safer than Catherine or Sara. I went to the only place that made me feel remotely safe in the last three years.

"Mr. Grissom," Lady Heather said as she opened the door to her dominion. She didn't look surprised. She didn't look as fiercely angry as the last time I saw her. She ushered me in. I followed her silently to her private quarters. I was surprised to see her use a key to open the door. Things must have changed since our last encounter.

"Lady Heather, I've lost my balance. This time . . . I can't make things better," I said quietly as I followed her to a sofa.

"Mr. Grissom, sometimes it isn't about making things better, but about letting them cure with time," Lady Heather said with a raised eyebrow. I knew that she was talking about our relationship. I suddenly felt selfish for coming to her with my problems. She was a dominatrix, not a shrink.

"One of my CSIs was almost murdered yesterday. Since then, two innocent people have been murdered by the same man," I said as I focused my line of sight on the floor. I felt ashamed for telling her my problems, but I needed the comfort of her wisdom. I needed for her not to judge me as harshly as I judged myself.

"Gil, I'm sorry. I'm sure that you haven't lost your balance. I'm sure the answers will come with time," she replied as she gently rested a hand on my knee.

"I've lost my balance. I want to kill this guy. I don't ever feel like this about suspects. I want him to suffer at my hands," I replied with coldness in my voice that made me shiver.

"It's human nature, Gil," Lady Heather replied, "You just don't let yourself be human often enough to know that."

"He's taken away my power, and I don't know how to get it back," I said. This was the first time in a long time that I felt inadequate as a CSI . . . as a man.

"What can I do to help you?" she asked as she kneeled in front of me forcing me to look into her eyes.

"I don't know. I don't know what to do next," I replied. There were few times in my life that I wanted to cry. There were few times in my life that I remember crying. This afternoon I wanted to cry for the Morgan widow because she had everything that I always wanted. She lost it all too quickly. She lost it all at the hands of a human that didn't have any right to take it away from her. I wanted to cry for her. The fact that it had touched me so deeply scared me. This is how I always imagined Sara feeling at rape scenes. Now, I knew that I was wrong for judging her so harshly. This hurt. This hurt worse than any other hurt I had ever felt.

"Do you want me to show you what you need?" she asked me. She rested a hand against my cheek like I did to her so many years ago. Despite my inadequacies as a man, there was still something there. There was still something that made me want to get lost in Lady Heather's eyes . . . get lost in her body. From the look in her eyes, I think there was something that made her want the same.

"Please, Lady Heather," I replied. The reply edged on being a panicked plea. I wanted things to get better. In my exhausted stated, I was ready to hold on to whoever would throw me a lifeline.

"You need to sleep, Gil. In the morning, your mind will be clear again. In the morning, we can have tea on the veranda and pretend that power isn't an issue," Lady Heather said as she took my hand and guided me to her bed. She slowly stripped me of my jacket. She began to unbutton my collar.

"You scare me when you're like this," Lady Heather said as she stripped me of my shirt. She talked me as if my mistakes were washed clean. Lady Heather was good at pretending that I hadn't royally screwed up so many years ago. She was good at pretending that I didn't haul her off to an interrogation room just to prove that I had the power to.

"How so?" I asked.

"Because you are human. It was easy for me to take comfort in the fact that you kept all your emotions at bay. It was easy for me to pretend that you came here for banter rather than a search for equilibrium," she replied as she slowly pulled my shoes and socks off my feet.

"Lady Heather, I think of you when I feel this crazy," I replied.

"Why do you think of me, Gil?" she asked.

"Because last time I felt crazy, you gave me the equilibrium that I needed," I replied. She smiled obviously pleased with the fact that she had that power over me. I cursed myself for thinking that way. There was a part of me that hoped it made her happy that I still cared about her . . . that I still needed her.

"I'll give you equilibrium, but you have to promise not to interrogate me," she replied.

"I promise to be better behaved this time," I replied.

"Good because in sustaining your equilibrium, I get thrown off balance," Lady Heather replied as she helped me into bed. I could feel her hands gently rubbing my back. She would occasionally whisper in my ear. I didn't hear the words, but the tone of her voice comforted me. It made me feel balanced again. I drifted into sleep with a new found sense of equilibrium even if this guy had the power to kill more people. I was determined to get him and make him pay.


	11. Greg's POV: Carbon Copies

Greg's POV:

It's been two days since Sara was attacked. We have two suspects that Vega, O'Reilly, and Brass have been tracking for the last seven hours. Bringing them in isn't going to break the case. Their DNA is shared. Most of their life has been shared. They married their high school girlfriends. They had children within weeks of each other. Both had been implicated in a crime that one or both might have committed.

I know my forensics are worthless at this point. They have the same fingerprints. They have the same epithelials. Their feet are the same size and width. A perfect carbon copy of each other is what they are. This case rests on which brother can come up with the most witnesses stating he was anywhere but the crime scenes. I knew there was an excellent chance that Ben and Brad Wilcott would walk free because the jury could convict only one brother . . . how do you take your pick out of two identical people?

It's eight in the morning. I miss Sara. I've picked up the telephone a million times to call her. I just want to know that she's okay, but I'm afraid that Ben or Brad or both will trace the call to the nearest cellphone tower. I don't want Nick or Sara hurt, but I also don't want to wait in limbo while they could already be hurt.

Ecklie is still in his office. The blinds are drawn on the door and glass wall. He's probably sleeping. Grissom wouldn't sleep, so Ecklie made him leave. Grissom didn't argue, but he had this confused look on his face. He looked like he didn't know where to go. I wondered where he was.

The telephone lines had been silent for two hours. There weren't anymore tipsters calling. The press had taken to writing articles for the morning papers. The world had been silent for two entire hours. It almost seemed like a miracle in light of all that had happened in the last forty eight hours.

I asked Mia to leave a few hours ago. She asked me if I wanted to go get some breakfast with her. Mia said that she wasn't sure if sleep would come to her as easily as it normally did. The adrenaline and fear had rendered her in a wakeful state despite the grueling hours of analyzing evidence.

Mia had been wonderful. She stepped in to help me with fingerprints. She took notes for me when I went to see Doc about Mr. Morgan. She helped me determine the paternity of the potato bits in no time. I was proud of her. I was proud of the fact that she was giving her time to help people that she barely knew. Mia had even asked if we should send Sara flowers, but then joked that Sara would be more apt to love chocolate or gourmet coffee more than something that would die within a few days. It seemed that maybe we finally found a person that could fit into the climate of our lab.

I was laying on the break room couch. I had been counting the tiny holes in the ceiling for what seemed like hours. Like Mia, sleep wouldn't take over my exhausted mind. The rush of adrenaline refused to leave my weary body. My brain was thinking about Nick, Sara, Warrick, and Catherine. My brain was conjuring up crime scenes that I prayed would never happen. I don't think I could ever work the case of one of my friends, if one of my friends were to permanently say good-bye.

"Greggo, Brass has Ben Wilcott in custody at the PD. Do you want to come watch the interrogation?" Sophia asked as she rested a hand on my shoulder. She knew that I was awake. It was the same that she was awake. Sophia had refused to sleep since she saw Sara. Sophia had promised Sara that she would get this guy.

Sophia and I drove to the PD. We didn't need to talk on the way there. We had a quiet understanding that this guy could be the guilty one, the innocent one, or a little bit of both. There was no good way for us to prove that forensically. I hated that this case rested on the stories of people that could very well be lying.

"Where were you today, Mr. Wilcott?" Brass asked. Brass looked a little edgy. He looked as if he might just jump across the table and strangle Ben Wilcott. It made me wonder if Brass had stopped to sleep today.

"I was at my mom's house. Brad and I helped her in the dog kennels. We are building a new pen for the puppies," Ben said a little too quickly. It was obvious that he was lying either for himself or for his brother.

"That's interesting because both of you have been implicated in two murders and one attempted murder," Brass said sharply.

"You've got to be kidding me. I just got out of jail. How damn dumb do you think I am?" Ben fired back.

"Dumb enough to lie to me and the crime scene investigators on the other side of the wall," Brass retorted, "You see the judge and jury foreman from your case are on slabs in the morgue. The woman you or Brad thought did the forensics was nearly strangled to death this morning. I walked in on that. You and your brother are lucky that I didn't kill you when I had the chance. I stayed with the CSI because I thought she might be dying. If she would have been only stunned, I would have put a cap in the ass of the bastard that hurt her."

"You should have. I wouldn't be here now if you did," Ben snapped at Brass.

"Don't you dare give me any lip. You better tell me where your brother is. You better give me your clothes. You better do whatever my CSIs say, or I'll throw your ass back in the holding pen with a guy that raped a transvestite last night . . . and I won't come running if he does the same to you," Brass said slowly and deliberately.

"I'm going to go save Brass before he says something that he might regret when the case comes up for review," Sophia said as she walked into the interrogation room.

"Mr. Wilcott, I'm Dr. Curtis. I'm going to be doing tests on your hands and clothes for gunshot residue. I'm also going to take a set of fingerprints and prints of the soles of your shoes. Strip down to your underwear," Sophia said without skipping a beat.

"You need a warrant," Ben replied.

"Funny, getting one of those wasn't a problem," Brass replied with a low chuckle.

I watched Sophia take all his clothes into evidence. I watched Sophia begin to examine his person for evidence. I cringed when I saw that he tested positive for GSR.

"Ben, Ben, Ben . . . you seem to have gunshot residue on your hands. It's not a good idea for convicts to be using guns in Nevada. You just gave me grounds to hold you on," Brass said as a slow smile crept onto his face.

"I shot some opossum this morning. They were trying to get into one of the dog pens. Those bastards carry rabies. My mom doesn't need rabies wiping out her only income," Ben replied coolly. I didn't know if he should be believed or not.

"You have a witness?" Brass asked as Sophia continued to work.

"Ask my mom and ask Brad," Ben fired back.

"Anyone a little more objective than that?" Brass asked.

"No."

At that moment, I knew this was only the beginning of our uphill battle with the Wilcott brothers.


	12. Nick's POV: Spirals

A/N: Sorry about the mistake in the last chapter - I didn't know that identical twins don't have identical fingerprints. At the ME's office this month I haven't seen any identical twins - which is a really good thing. Thanks for the info (if anyone has a good source and genetic mechanism, let me know. I'm always looking to add to my medical library). Hope you like the 'snickery' update. -Jac

Nick's POV:

She asked me to hold her. Sara began to hyperventilate the moment I turned the lights off in the bedroom. She wouldn't admit it, but the darkness terrified her just as much as the daylight did. I turned the light back on to see her lying petrified in bed with tears running down her face. She trembled in my arms for thirty minutes before she fell into a restless sleep. I stayed awake holding her the entire time.

My gun was loaded and ready to be used at a moments notice. I knew that it probably wasn't necessary since Brass had sent what seemed like a small army of armed guards to keep us safe. I hadn't used my gun much since I became a CSI. It usually wasn't necessary. The detectives and police officers always offered to clear the scene. I could count on one hand the number of times I needed to draw a gun on a suspect. It was the same number of times that I had stared down the barrel of a gun.

Sara looks so fragile in my arms. The size of the foam collar has even managed to make her look small. She hated the foam collar. Sara hated that between the medications and foam collar she was rendered helpless. She cursed when she found that eating was nothing short of a monumental feat. She said it hurt to chew. Bruises on her face began to darken. He must have hit her in the face once or twice. Sara said that her wrists and hands hurt from trying desperately to fend off her attacker. She begrudgingly let me help her eat only after the frustration brought her to tears.

I nursed her wounds this evening. The antiseptic solution burned her skin, but she pretended that it wasn't a big deal. The antibiotic salve smelled horrible. The bandages over the lacerations constricted her mobility. Her eyes went glassy. Sara retreated to somewhere in the corner of her mind to forget. She needed to forget about her attacker; she needed to forget about her helplessness.

I would have held her whether or not she wanted me to. I knew from experience that Sara needed someone to make her feel safe. After Nigel, all I wanted was the safety of another person. Warrick took me into his home for two weeks. Warrick and Sara took vacation time to fret over my every mood. I complained, but secretly I was thankful for the safeness they provided. I was thankful that they never told another soul that I jumped if I thought I heard movement in the attic. I knew Sara needed me to give her that kind of safety right now.

She woke up gasping for air. She sat straight up and wrapped her arms around her chest. Sara began to rock herself slightly. Her pupils were dilated from the overwhelming sympathetic response that fueled the nightmare she woke from. I gently helped her lay back down. I wiped the pieces of hair caught in a matrix of sweat from her forehead. Her eyes pleaded for me to tell her that this was all just a dream. She didn't need to say it. Her eyes screamed it.

"I'm going to be sick," Sara whispered as she scrambled to the bathroom. She leaned heavily on the toilet as she emptied her stomach. She stayed in the position . . . gasping for air when she was done. I held her hair out of her face. Sara let me help her back to the bed when she was done. I wiped her face with a washcloth, and offered her water and an Altoid. She smiled gratefully.

"I dreamt that it was Catherine. I drove into the parking lot and it was Catherine that lay on the ground. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't breathing. Then the guy in the hooded sweatshirt began choking me from behind. I couldn't get him off of me," Sara said as she rested back into the pillows.

"It's okay. The dream is over. I'm right here," I whispered as I laid next to her. She rolled on her side. Her head rested on my chest. I'm sure that she could hear my heart pounding. I ran my fingers through her hair. I lifted my head to kiss the crown of her head. That's when the tears started. I held her until she quieted. I knew she wasn't asleep, but she was exhausted.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Brass said as he walked into the bedroom with two suitcases in hand.

"Did you get him?" Sara asked.

"I have one suspect in custody. I have my entire force hunting for the other suspect. How are you doing?" Jim asked as he sat on the edge of the bed. Sara didn't move from her position on my chest. I couldn't bring myself to let her go.

"My head hurts. My jaw hurts," Sara said softly.

"Are you taking your pain medications?" Brass asked as he leaned in closer to examine the bruises along Sara's jaw line.

"I took them a few hours ago," Sara replied.

"Sar, I need to talk to Nick about the case. Can I borrow him for a few minutes?" Brass asked.

"I want to know what's happening," Sara replied point blank.

"Are you sure?" I asked. I knew Sara already had enough on her mind. I didn't want her to know that gory details.

"Our suspects are identical twins. They were convicted of sexual assault ten years ago. The victim said that they both raped her. Copious amounts of seminal fluid and bruising leant itself to her story," Brass began.

"So one of them could have been innocent?" I asked.

"The victim did a lot of heroin. She was a 'good time' girl. It's possible that her recollection of the rapes is incorrect," Brass replied, "It's easier for the jury to convict both of them rather than one."

"What is the evidence telling us about my attack and the Judge's murder?" Sara asked.

"We have no fingerprints. Epithelials aren't going to do anything for our case. Our case rides on alibis and witnesses. I'm sorry, Sara," Jim replied.

"So everyone else from the trial is safe?" Sara asked.

"There was another victim . . . the jury foreman. He was shot this evening," Jim replied.

I drew in a deep breath. What I thought was two murders seemed to be something spiraling out of control. I could feel Sara tense against me. She must have been thinking the same thing.

"Nick, take care of her. Sara, you have everyone working on this case. We'll get you home soon," Brass said as he stood up and disappeared.

I was beginning to think that soon could be a really long time.


	13. Brass' POV: Victories

A/N: Sorry I haven't updated in a long time - I've had a really tough rotation at the medical examiner's office this month. Not too mention moving across the country for a month long rotation hasn't exactly been fun. I'll try toupdate more frequently if possible. As always, let me know what you think. -Jac

Brass' POV:

I had Ben Wilcott in custody for hours, but nothing had come of his detention. I've had to face the fact that I'm going to have to release him unless something colossal occurs relatively soon. I've been to the crime lab asking questions of anyone who will talk. All the talk has been discouraging. The fingerprints are smudged, the boot print is from a boot manufactured for fifteen plus years without alterations, and there isn't any DNA to speak of. I knew all this before I began pestering the criminalists; I knew it from the look on Greg's face. It was a look of utter despair that I had never seen before.

"I'll give you a warrant for the Ben's shoes and closet. You can't touch a single one of Brad's things. You are going to follow protocol, right?" Judge Henson said as he approached me. He was probably the first judge to set foot in the crime lab. He looked just as stressed out as everyone else I was in contact with today. Henson was probably trying to remember if any case had ever associated him with the Wilcott brothers. I, myself, had wondered that frequently over the last forty-eight hours.

"I can hold him over until the search is completed?" I asked.

"Do what you need to. I don't want the guilty party to get away with this. I don't want them to kill another judge, a lawyer, jury member, CSI, or someone else," Henson said as he placed the paper in my hand. He walked away from me with a look of fear in his eyes. I understood. No one in the court system was really safe until we had the evidence to lock away the guilty party.

"Warrant?" Gil asked as he tried to suppress a yawn. I woke him two hours earlier to let him in on the status of the warrant. I was shocked that Lady Heather answered the phone for him. I was even more shocked to hear her call him 'honey.' I had assumed that after the insulin debacle, things between them would never be the same. Lady Heather seemed to be full of surprises. Gil seemed to have his fair share too.

"Did you get some sleep?" I asked with a knowing wink.

"Enough," he simply replied. He looked more emotionally exhausted than physically exhausted, but those lines seemed to have blurred in the last two days. "Is everyone okay?"

"Sara looks like she's barely hanging in there. She has these huge bruises on her face. One of these bastards hit her hard," I replied as I tried to suppress the nausea associated with the images I had tried to block out of my mind.

"Catherine?"

"You know her. She's spiteful and quick tongued. Warrick said that she's been mean to him and Lindsey. Cath's having just as hard of a time dealing with this as Sara is," I replied. I remembered how Lindsey hid behind Warrick when he opened the door with his gun in his hand. I remembered how Catherine yelled at Lindsey to get the hell away from the door. I was impressed at how Warrick was able to take all the stress in stride. He always did that. It would come out later in the form a few packs of cigarettes and drinks at some seedy bar.

"What's the warrant for?" Gil asked. He might have asked multiple times, but I had been so deeply lost in thought.

"Closet. Ben's shoes only. I can hold him over until the search is completed . . . bring your boot print to the scene," I instructed, but I knew that Gil knew was to do despite all the lecturing that I constantly did.

"Have you seen Greg, Sophia, or Ecklie?" Gil asked as he ran a hand across his forehead.

"Greg and Sophia are sleeping. They haven't gotten any sleep since this whole mess started. Ecklie is in his office. Go grab some coffee. I'll get Ecklie ready to go," I replied as I placed a hand on Gil's shoulder. He looked up and nodded. I knew it killed him to see Sara or Catherine suffer. He loved them both in a way that was nothing short of paternal.

"Conrad, I have a warrant for the closet. You want to come help Grissom and me?" I asked as I walked into his office. He looked confused. I knew for a fact that he had gotten as much sleep as I had. I had caught a few hours here and there. I hadn't gotten nearly as much sleep as I needed.

"Grissom here?" Ecklie asked.

"Awake and ready to go," I replied.

"Okay. Let's get this over with," Ecklie said as he pulled himself out of his desk chair. His clothes were wrinkled and disheveled. It was clear to me that he hadn't been home since Sara was attacked. His attire wasn't too much different from my own.

We endured another uncomfortable car ride together. Words didn't need to be exchanged because we were all thinking the same thing. _If another murder happens while Ben is in custody, we know it's Brad . . . but that small victory would occur at what cost._ Things could never be that simple. Murders in Vegas were never as simple as the murders in New Jersey. Sometimes, I wondered why the hell I moved to Vegas.

The kennel and house were located on the outskirts of the suburbs. The intense heat of Vegas and the surrounding desert made this a very peculiar location for an outdoor dog kennel. The house was as I expected. I was moderately well-kept. Actually, it was reminiscent of how a divorced fifty year old man kept his home. It reminded me a lot of my apartment. Clothes were randomly dropped on the ground. There wasn't a clear delineation of what was clean and what was dirty. Dirty dishes were stacked haphazardly in the sink. Mrs. Wilcott ushered us into the room that her adult sons shared. She said to do what was needed and then get the hell out of her life.

I asked her where Brad was. She said that he was out looking for a job. She said that Ben and Brad worked at the kennel nearly non-stop yesterday and the day before. She told me that this was all ridiculous; well, she said it in much more tart words. Mrs. Wilcott nearly spit at the fact that she would need to come with us to the station for an interrogation. I think her exact words were 'over my damn dead body, asshole.' I thought a mother would and should show more interest in her sons. Mrs. Wilcott seemed distant and detached. It wasn't what I expect when we got to the house.

"Jim, we have a match," Gil called out from the bedroom. I knew just because the boots were in Ben's closet, it didn't mean they were Ben's. I was satisfied with the small victory. We left the house with Mrs. Wilcott and a pair of boots. I was courteous enough to leave and armed officer waiting for Brad to come home.


	14. Catherine's POV: Revolving Doors

Catherine's POV:

He spent hours reading from some dusty, leather bound book. I was surprised to see him take his glasses out of his pocket after reading the first few pages. I wondered what had him so captivated from the beginning. I want to read over his shoulder, but I don't want Lindsey to get any ideas in her head. I know that she adores Warrick, but I don't want her to get attached to him. My life has been nothing more than a revolving door for men; I learned long ago not to introduce them to my daughter. Most of them never knew that I had a daughter.

"Mom, I'm bored," Lindsey whined as I refocus and began to busy myself by cleaning the kitchen.

"Sweetie, it probably won't be much longer," I said as I scrubbed at what might have been a coffee stain from the early 90's.

"Linds, come here. You'll love this book," Warrick said. Lindsey rolled her eyes. Reading, math, writing, science, art, music, and every other class weren't exactly her forte.

"What's it about?" Lindsey asked in an effort of humoring Warrick. It almost made me laugh because she didn't even do that for me anymore.

"Murder, lying, money . . . kind of like those romance novels, but with bigger words," Warrick called out.

"Really? Does the guy get the girl?" Lindsey asked with a raise eyebrow as she left the kitchen intrigued with the possibility of something more entertaining than her homework.

"Does it matter?" Warrick replied.

"I guess not," Lindsey replied. I could hear the pages of the book flip. It was followed by Warrick's strangely melodic voice reading Lindsey a story about the Victorian South. It reminded me a lot of Scarlet O'Hara and Rhett Butler, but Warrick was right about big words.

I listened to them read for hours before they retreated to the kitchen for lunch. Cooking wasn't exactly my greatest domestic skill, but they didn't seem to mind that I made grilled cheese sandwiches. They were too busy talking about how the fictional Eliza should have hit the fictional male character for pushing her . . . and cheating on her with her sister. I was surprised that Warrick could get lost in something that was no doubt as trashy as the Lifetime Network.

I fell asleep in the rocking chair as Lindsey and Warrick continued to explore the seedy world of the deep South. I hadn't slept well the night before. I gasped every time I thought I heard the floorboards creek. I nearly had a heart attack when I realized Lindsey wasn't in the bed next to me. I was surprised to see her sleeping on the ground next to Warrick. She clung to him the way she used to cling to Eddie after a nightmare.

I spent the rest of the night wondering how Sara was doing. My neck was sore, but I knew that was the product of me imagining that it was me that was attacked. It wasn't fair. I didn't want it to be me, but I wished that this asshole could have at least got the right target. If he had a beef with me, he should have come to me to settle the score.

In that sense, I was the exact opposite of Sara. I knew I could kill someone to protect the people I loved. I killed that maniac, Google, that threatened Grissom. I was able to shoot him without a second thought. There was no way in hell that I was going to let some psycho kill my best friend. Sara could never kill someone. It wasn't in her nature; maybe because she had been hurt so many times. It wasn't that she was weak. Sara was just a little more compassionate than me, Grissom, or Warrick. Sara and Nick were the 'feelers' of the lab. I gave up on that long ago.

"Cath, why don't you go to bed? I already carried Lindsey into the bedroom," Warrick said as he gently shook my shoulder causing me to jump what felt like a mile into the air.

"I slept all evening. I don't know if I'll be able to fall asleep again," I said as my mind jolted into wakefulness.

"Sorry, I woke you," Warrick said as he sat down on the sofa adjacent to the chair where I was sitting.

"How was the book?" I asked.

"Trashy, but it kept Linds happy," Warrick replied with a smile.

"Thanks for keeping her entertained. She's ready to go insane . . . she wants to go home and watch television," I said as I tried to force a smile.

"Brass has one of the brothers in custody. As soon as he tracks down the other one, we'll be headed home," Warrick replied. I stood up and sat on the couch next to him. I leaned into him just as Lindsey did while he read to her.

"This hasn't been all bad," I replied. Warrick began to run his fingers through my hair.

"It hasn't," Warrick softly replied. I could feel myself sink deeper into him. I was so relaxed that I could barely move.

"About yesterday," I said.

"I'm sorry," Warrick replied before I could even figure out what I was going to say.

"I'm not. I liked it," I replied. I could feel his heart begin to race. "I wouldn't mind doing that again some time."

"Cath, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. This isn't because I'm bored . . . it isn't because you are the only one here. Let's try to do this right," Warrick rambled.

"Oh, shut up," I said as I sat up and put a finger to his lips to silence him. I kissed him first this time. It was something less desperate than yesterday. He lowered me to the couch . . . my body pinned between him and the slightly stale smelling fabric. In that moment, part of me began to wish that maybe we might not go home too soon.


	15. Ecklie's POV: Boots

A/N: I've started to play around with this story again. It's a little more fun now that I've begun to embrace Ecklie as a character that is challenging to write (especially since Marc Vann doesn't get much screen time). Let me know if you think I should continue. Sorry for the very short chapter. -Jac

Ecklie's POV:

"Okay, you little prick. Let me tell you a story," I began, "There once was a boot . . . found in your closet. It was your shoe size, and a lab confirmed that the soil in the ridges matches the mulch from outside a murder victim's home. Moral of the story: If the shoe fits, wear it."

"It's not mine," Ben replied. His faux callous exterior was beginning to crumble. Any other day, I would find this enjoyable. I might even laugh a little at how otherwise rational people would always claim that the science was wrong. Today, I just wanted to nail his ass to the wall. I didn't want to play cat and mouse.

"Did you not hear the moral of the story?" I asked with a yawn.

"It's not my boot," Ben said in a voice a little shakier than the one he was using before.

"Well, if the boot murdered two people and attempted to murder a CSI, it should be locked away for a long time. It may even get a lethal injection for all its trouble," I snipped. I was rapidly losing my patience with him. I was hoping that he would lose patience with me and tell me where his brother was. Two in custody would definitely be better than one.

"I raped that whore, but I didn't murder anyone. I'm not going to fry for Brad," Ben replied.

"How do I know you aren't lying to me, Boots?" I asked Ben.

"They aren't my boots. Jesus, I am not frying for that asshole," Ben replied, "He's a self-serving . . ."

"Whoa, now," I replied as a smile began to play upon my lips, "Where is this self-serving brother of yours?"

"I don't know," Ben replied. I couldn't tell if it Boots was lying to me.

"Well, Boots, it would help if we knew where Brad was. The sooner you give him up, the sooner you and your miserable mother are back in that shit hole you call a home," I replied.

"You can keep her and Brad. She'd love to see us go back to jail," Ben replied. Pink began to rise up from his neck into his cheeks. "Try Bombay Bar off the strip. He likes to watch the strippers in the evening."

"Well, Boots, you might have just bought yourself some freedom," I said as I walked out of the interrogation room.

"Good work," Grissom said as he followed me to where Brass was interrogating Ben's 'lovely' mother.

"That felt fucking grand," I said as I let that smile play upon my lips.

"Okay, I like you, Betty. I don't want to throw your ass in the slammer next to your sons' asses, but aiding a criminal . . . one that kills judges. Not smart, Betty," Brass said as we walked into the interrogation room, "Look it's the cavalry. Your son is talking. You better start talking too."

"I don't want anything to do with those dimwits," Betty said as she puffed on a cigarette, "Screw-ups from day one. Just like their daddy. All they ever wanted to do was look at the strippers. Lazy sons of bitches."

"Betty, I'm going to let you stew for a while. Don't you go anywhere," Brass said as he stood up from the table.

"Thanks, asshole," Betty cursed back in a nearly comical fashion.

We stood in the hallway for a minute before any words were spoken. Brass looked at me and shook his head. I could see the case getting to him. For some reason, he was fiercely protective of Sara. He was more protective of her than Grissom was. It confused me because Brass didn't know her like Grissom did.

"Bombay Bar watching the strippers tonight. You up for it?" I asked Brass.

"You think they'd learn. Maybe Betty is right about them," Brass said as he rubbed a hand across his forehead, "You are the last people I have ever imagined going to a strip club with."

"Let's just never bring this up again," I replied as we followed Jim out to his squad.

"What, Conrad . . . no team building?" Grissom asked with a smirk.

"No way in hell," I replied as I climbed into the backseat of the cruiser, "It's bad enough that last time I went to Glitter I saw Al and David."

"Yeah, let's never talk about this again," Brass replied.

I began to remember why I enjoyed being a CSI in the first place.


	16. Grissom's POV: Conscience

Grissom's POV:

The girls aren't wearing much more than strings to cover the most intimate parts of their bodies. There are poles in a variety of locations in the bar. Surprisingly, there are peanut shells covering the floor . . . a long with a thin layer of sawdust. This is where the locals frequent. The real locals; the people working as valets, bartenders, waiters . . . the people making just enough money to rent an apartment and eat lunch and dinner at an all-you-can-eat buffet. A tourist would never even think to wander into this establishment.

The bar is so dark that I can barely see the patrons. I probably wouldn't see Brad even if he was nestled right under my nose. I know Ecklie isn't much better off. He's stepped on my heels about five or six times within the five minutes we've been in the rather rustic 'gentlemen's club.'

"You want a dance?" a girl no more than eighteen years old asked Brass. She pouted her lips in a way that was so unnatural it immediately became the antithesis of sexy. She ran her hands down the profile of her body as she swayed off beat to what could have been the soundtrack of a pornography video. Her long, stringy brown hair coated with a combination of glitter, sweat, and beer. She probably didn't make anymore than fifty dollars a night. None of the patrons looked like they even had fifty dollars in their worn leather wallets.

"No, but, sweetheart, I'm lookin' for this guy. You recognize him?" Brass asked as he held up a picture of Brad Wilcott.

"That's Big Dog," the girl replied. I was immediately sickened by the nickname, though the stripper seemed happy to see him.

"Where's Big Dog?" Brass asked slowly. He was either trying to keep from throwing up at the mention of the nickname or he was trying to suppress his laughter. Knowing Jim, it was probably the latter of the two.

"Table sixteen. He was in the mood for a red-head tonight," the stripper replied as she pointed us in the direction of table sixteen. I immediately felt ill at the mention of a red-head. It made me think of Catherine. I made me believe that he knew Sara from Catherine, but was prepared to take out the first target he saw. Now I knew what Catherine meant when she said she would kill for her daughter; I would kill to protect Sara and Catherine.

"Let's go say hi to _Big Dog_," Brass replied. His words dripped with sarcasm. I got the impression that he would also kill to protect Sara and Catherine . . . _Big Dog_ would just have to provide him with the opportunity.

Brad Wilcott fit into the ambiance of the bar perfectly. He was clad in a dirty gray t-shirt and jeans that had been cut into shorts that might have been just a little too short. He wore flip-flop sandals and a long gold chain. He looked so different from his twin, who was slightly better kept.

"Big Dog, I'm Detective Brass. You're coming with me," Jim said as he yanked Brad out of his seat by the collar of his shirt, "Buddy, you, me, and your brother have a lot to talk about. If you're a good boy, I'll even let your mother join us."

I put a hand on Brass' shoulder in hopes that he might not overstep his boundaries, thought I don't think my conscience would be up in arms about it. Brad pushed Jim off of him, which was the exact opposite of what he should have done. Jim pulled his gun and forced his face down into a pile of discarded peanut shells that were sitting on the table.

"If you think for a minute that you're in control, you are sadly mistaken. I could have shot you in the ass. You're lucky I didn't . . . I have extremely good aim," Brass yelled at him. The pornography soundtrack immediately stopped. Peopled flooded from the bar as if they believed that they would be in handcuff next. The place was probably overrun by men with outstanding warrants for something.

"Easy, Brass. Let's take him back to meet with tweedle-dee," Ecklie replied. Ecklie appeared to be enjoying working on this particular case. He didn't seem to mind the interrogation room. He didn't even seem opposed to processing the evidence. I nearly had to turn around to make sure this was the Conrad Ecklie that I had known for years.

Brass, Ecklie and I managed to squeeze into the front seat of the squad. If given the chance, Ecklie or Brass probably would have been happy to sit in the backseat with Brad. I could have pictured either of them punching Brad Wilcott. I could close my eyes and picture the yelling that would ensue. Again, my conscience wasn't up in arms over the daydream.

Brass paraded Brad Wilcott down the hallway to the interrogation room much as he did Sexy Kitty so many years ago. I still look back at that day and smile. I never forgot the balding lawyer dressed in the blue cat 'plushie' suit.

"Brass, we've got two more crime scenes," a young woman said as she met us in the hallway, "Vartan and O'Reilly went out."

"What the fuck did you do?" Brass asked as he pushed Brad into an interrogation room.

"I'll head back to the lab. You . . . make sure Brass doesn't kill the brothers before the state of Nevada has the chance to," Ecklie said as he turned away from me.

Few people would describe me as something other than peaceful. There were few times that I had ever lost my temper with suspects. Secretly, I always hoped that criminals would get life in prison rather than death. This time, I wanted to see someone pay for what had been done to Sara.

"This isn't cute anymore. You better start talking," Brass said as he indicated that the guard could un-handcuff the suspect.

"I don't know what you are talking about, officer," Brad stated as if he had just been pulled over for speeding or something much less benign than what he was brought in for.

"You brother says that he raped that stripper three years ago," I said. Brass looked at me as if he wanted to do this solo. I wanted him to be a captain tomorrow, so I wasn't going to sit here quietly.

"I did time for that pansy-ass. Our 'big shot' lawyer said there was no way that both of us would be convicted . . . they'd let us walk. He still sends my mother bills for all his _services_," Brad said. He stared into my eyes. His unblinking eyes said far more than he could. They said he stopped feeling somewhere between his court date and his jail time.

"My friend was strangled by someone in your situation. A judge and a jury foreman were murdered. Payback, Brad?" Jim asked. Again, Brad didn't blink.

"It could have been anyone," Brad replied.

"Funny that all these people just happened to be associated with your trial," Brass replied.

"Well, this world is a funny place," Brad replied. Ben definitely seemed to be the well-adjusted brother.

"I want your clothes," Brass said.

"Over my dead body," Brad hissed as he leaned over the table, "I'm not under arrest."

"Well, why don't you wait here? I'll get the warrant," Brass snapped as I followed him out of the room.

Brass' forehead crinkled. He immediately spun around and threw his left fist into the cinderblock wall. I knew what he was thinking; _we have them, but we are just too late._

"Jim, go rest. I'm sure Vega wouldn't mind taking at shot at the family," I replied as Jim nursed an obviously broken hand.

"Dammit, Gil. I have two more scenes. I know nothing about these scenes. What if they're fresh? Then what the hell do we start looking for?" Brass asked.

Truth be told . . . I didn't know.


End file.
